“Did a white man come here on horseback during the last few days from the Drift?”
“No!”
“On foot?”
“No, not the whole way.”
“Is he here now?” Tom nodded.
“You know about him, Tom?”
“Seedling! the chap you’re after, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” we answered, lowering our voices. Tom looked from one to the other with the same queer smile, and then making a move to let us into the store said quietly: “He won’t clear, boys; he’s dead!” Some kaffirs coming along the footpath from the ’Bombo had found the horse dead of horse-sickness half a day away, and further on—only a mile or so from the store—the rider lying on his back in the sun, dying of thirst. He died before they got him in. He was buried under a big fig tree where another and more honoured grave was made later on.
Jim sat by himself the whole evening and never spoke a word.